Mama Mia!!!

Some guy bought my younger daughter a drink the other day. Okay, we were poolside in Mexico, it was a virgin pina colada, and the guy – the hotel owner’s grandson – was too shy to approach her so had a friend do his bidding, but still. Add to that all the young men fawning over my older daughter the minute she would flash a smile and I began to wish I had brought along a bodyguard. Or maybe an octagenarian with failing eyesight so at least I could get some attention.

As is usually the case for me (in my wildest dreams), all I need to do is wish for something and there it is. Poof! A handsome young Italian cop in a speedo was not exactly what I had in mind, but somehow this fairy tale version of a bodyguard materialized by our sides two days into our Mexican vacation and seemed to have nothing better to do than hang with us. (Ha ha, hang!) My mother always told me you could spot a European just by looking at his shoes. Well, Officer Angelo’s flip flops looked perfectly ordinary to me, but the skimpy bathing suit lurking beneath his long beach shorts was a dead giveaway. Let’s just say that when I kept looking down, it wasn’t exactly because I was being coy. And the accented English; dio mio!

Well thank goodness I didn't wish too hard for the blind old fart. My lazy beach vacation had suddenly been upgraded to a sightseeing trip. Goodbye fireman fantasy, hello Italian law enforcement. I immediately started imagining my upcoming crime spree in Italy, just so I can snag a pat down. (Sure, I was not exactly the object of Officer Angelo’s attention, but really, who gives a shit? A little eye candy went a long way toward alleviating the tedium of the endless hot and sunny hot days.)

Language barriers and cultural differences aside, our scantily clad Roman cop was a fine addition to our vacation. Guess I’m a sucker for a guy in a uniform, and his were top-notch; his white jeans in the evening left little more to the imagination than the speedo. Polite, soft-spoken, attentive to our every whim – they don’t make ‘em like that on the Jersey Shore. Or on the shores of Lake Michigan, for that matter. This was no Saturday Night Fever Italian from my neck of the woods in Brooklyn; this was the real Macoy. Maconi?

The hotel owner's grandson never showed up again, which was kind of disappointing since I had been harboring grand hopes for a round of drinks for our entire crew. At least we still had Officer Angelo, his rippling muscles ready to be flexed at a moment's notice should anyone unsavory invade our space. He kept a watchful eye on my girls. And me, well, there was really nothing left for me to do except keep a watchful eye on Angelo.